


Porcelain

by champagneleftie



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13818186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagneleftie/pseuds/champagneleftie
Summary: Eva wakes up to Noora’s blonde hair spread across her pillow, like a sun.





	Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

> It feels a bit surreal to finally be posting my big bang fic! It's really been a long time coming... 
> 
> [Natalie/@evenbechnaezheim](https://evenbechnaezheim.tumblr.com) made an amazing [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/darkravenqueen/playlist/503NZdzhzjvv54xQgCcNW2?si=eFaanZ54SESzWUKl8gI6iw) for this fic that you really have to go listen to! 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Julia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jules1398) for organizing this, to my darling [smutfika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smutfika) for betaing, and to everyone who's had to listen to me whine and moan about this over the past few months. Couldn't have done it without you! <3

**One.**

Eva wakes up to Noora’s blonde hair spread across her pillow, like a sun. The first golden rays of dawn find their way in through the basement window, bathing the entire room in a soft, golden glow. Like an Instagram filter. Valencia, maybe. 

Noora sleeps on her side, with her back towards Eva. One arm tucked under her pillow, the other resting across her stomach. The duvet bunched up around her waist. She’s wearing Eva’s t-shirt, as usual. Eva knows that once she’s woken up, and showered, and changed into her own clothes again, she’ll fold the t-shirt neatly and place it in Eva’s laundry basket, on top of her other scrunched up shirts and jeans. And Eva knows she’ll have to force herself to resist the urge to grab it and bury her nose in it. Fold her arms across her chest, or shove her hands into her pockets, to stop herself from inhaling the scent of Noora sleeping. Just like she’s right now forcing herself to lay with her hands tucked under her head, to keep them trapped, to prevent them from wandering off on their own. Prevent them from reaching out and stroking Noora’s hair, cheek, back, hips. To push the duvet down even further, follow the curve of Noora’s ass, thighs. To tuck herself around Noora, put her own arm over Noora’s, across her stomach. To wake her up with tiny, fluttering kisses on the warm spot where her neck becomes her shoulder.

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Eva forces herself to roll over to her back instead, forces herself to stare at the ceiling, forces herself to think about anything else. Anything else but this. She has a history paper due on Tuesday. Mom comes home on Thursday. It’s Halloween soon, they should start looking for a good party. 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

She can’t keep doing this. She _knows_ she can’t keep doing this, she’s told herself so many times that she can’t. She has to stop. For both her own sake, and Noora’s. It’s fucking creepy, is what it is. Staring at your best friend while she sleeps. Your _straight_ best friend. Your straight best friend who isn’t interested in you, who’s made it clear time and time again (thanks for that, Vilde) that she isn’t interested in girls at all. 

She has to stop. 

But that Noora’s started sleeping over so often, lately... it hasn’t exactly  _ helped.  _

Noora rolls over onto her stomach, and whines a little in her sleep, and Eva just can’t handle this right now. She can’t wake up with Noora, can’t be the first thing she sees, can’t handle her looking at her with a sleepy smile and hooded eyes. It’s just way too similar to all the mornings she’s woken up just like that together with Jonas. With Chris.

Instead, she slips out of bed and tiptoes up the stairs to the bathroom, skipping the one step that always creaks. When she enters the bathroom, she catches sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. She looks the same as always. Messy hair, ratty t-shirt. Actually barefaced, because if Noora’s constant sleepovers have brought with them one good thing it’s fewer nights of Eva going to sleep with her makeup intact. Fewer nights of collapsing into bed, too tired to give a shit about washing her face, and waking up with her eyelashes glued together.

Her pee clinks against the porcelain of the toilet bowl. When she wipes she realises how wet she is. 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

She washes her hands until they turn red and the hot water starts to sting. Tries to scrub away her feelings, her red cheeks, her wet dreams, her quickening heartbeats. 

As if she hasn’t tried that already. 

She can’t help but brush her hair before she leaves the bathroom. Even though she hates herself a little for doing it. 

When she returns to her bedroom, Noora is already buttoning up her shirt, all the way to her neck. Eva’s t-shirt is, as expected, neatly folded on top of the laundry basket. Noora smiles at her when she enters, and Eva feels her heart shrivel up like a raisin. She watches helplessly as Noora finds a lipstick in her purse and leans in towards Eva’s mirror. Eva follows the movements of Noora's reflection, of how she drags the bullet from her cupid’s bow to first the right corner of her mouth, then to the left. Paints her lower lip. Blots on a tissue, drags a thumbnail along the edge of her bottom lip to remove an invisible speck that’s ended up outside the lines. 

Maybe Eva could ask her to stay. Could suggest breakfast, could sit on the counter while Noora makes them pancakes. Could smile at Noora over a cup of scalding hot coffee. 

Could feel the warmth of the mug against her hands, since she doesn't get to feel the warmth of Noora. 

They’ve done it before, after all. Lots of times. But it's getting too hard lately. Hanging out with Noora, laying on the bed with her, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, showing her things on her phone, talking about school or boys or whatever. It leaves Eva wrung out, limp and shapeless, like a dirty, overused dishrag that won't dry properly anymore. Sour.

So she lets Noora leave. It's easier that way. 

Noora gives her a quick hug before pulling on her jacket and boots and climbing out the basement window. She smells of almost-gone deodorant, last night’s dancing sweat and  _ Noora,  _ in that way that Eva can never define but recognises even in her sleep. The grass outside is still dewy, and it leaves a wet stain on the knee of her jeans. It takes Eva a moment before she manages to move over and close the window properly after her. The October chill seeps through the crack, giving her goosebumps along her bare arms and thighs.

She can't face the world just yet. No one will miss her anyway. Her mom is away, all the girls have their own plans. Maybe she’ll text Jonas tonight, if she feels too lonely. 

For now, she crawls back into bed, on Noora's side this time. Folds the duvet double over herself, tries to let the weight mimic her weight. Tries to let it settle her. She finds her phone and her headphones, buries them as deeply as possible in her ears. She’ll hate herself afterwards, will have to take a long hot shower to wash away the dirtiness, but for now, she squeezes her eyes shut. She focuses on the music, allows it to fill her mind, and tries to pretend that the fingers tracing the edges of her panties, down between her thighs, drawing circles, stripes, shapes over her sensitive clit, are Noora’s instead of her own. 

~*~

**Two.**

Eva is drunk. 

So fucking drunk. 

She is so fucking drunk and she’s at a  _ party _ . She isn’t sure  _ whose  _ party, but  _ Iben’s  _ here and she hasn’t seen Iben in  _ forever! _ And she  _ missed  _ her! But now she’s gone. 

Eva really needs to pee. She really, really needs to pee. She really, really,  _ really  _ needs to pee but the bathroom door is locked and has been locked for a  _ very long time. _ She listened at the door and she’s pretty sure someone’s fucking in there. 

Eva wants to fuck someone  _ too.  _

Specifically, Eva wants to fuck Noora. But Noora doesn’t want to fuck her. 

And Jonas won’t fuck her when she’s drunk – and she’s  _ so drunk,  _ and also she  _ really needs to pee –  _ and Chris is with Emma now (is it Emma’s party? It might be Emma’s party?), and Vilde won’t kiss her now that she’s with Magnus. No one will fuck her and she really needs to pee and she’s  _ sad.  _ She’s sad and she wants Noora. 

There might be another bathroom upstairs? She tries to step up to the first stair, but misjudges the distance from the floor a little and stumbles, banging her shin on the step, almost tripping and falling forward. 

An arm shoots out and catches her around her waist, straightens her up. Eva knows that arm, knows that grip, knows that perfume, that scent. She turns to see who it’s attached to and – it’s Noora! Noora’s here! Noora caught her! 

Eva loves Noora. She loves Noora  _ so much.  _ She should tell her. Noora should know how much she loves her. Maybe if Noora just knew how much Eva loves her, she’d fuck her.

“Noora!” she squeals, throwing her arms around her neck and  _ squeezing,  _ squeezing so hard that Noora must feel how happy she is, “Noora!” She drops her voice to a whisper, licks her lips and finds Noora’s ear behind her hair, “Noora,  _ I really need to pee.”  _

Noora laughs. Good! Noora should always laugh. Noora has the best laugh. It is the prettiest. Noora is the prettiest. Also, when she scrunches up her nose and her whole face and giggles, that is the prettiest too. Eva laughs too. She can’t be sad if Noora’s here. Even if Noora won’t fuck her. 

“Okay,” Noora says, “Let’s find a bathroom, and then maybe it’s time to go home?” And  _ yes,  _ that is a  _ very good idea,  _ go home and then maybe kiss and fuck. 

Noora helps Eva up the stairs, because Noora is the  _ nicest  _ and Eva loves her, she loves her so much and she really needs to tell her that. Noora helps her find the bathroom and makes Eva wash her hands afterwards, and she helps her find her coat and untangles her from around Isak’s neck when she finds Isak just as they’re leaving. She just has to tell him that she  _ loves him too.  _ And Even is so hot but she promises not to steal him because she loves Noora now and they’re going home to fuck. 

She loses her train of thought after telling him she loves him and just hums in his ear instead. Isak looks amused. Good. Isak should also always be happy. 

They go outside and Noora looks so  _ cold _ . She tucks her chin into her coat and pushes her hands far down into the pockets, but Eva is not cold, is just  _ happy _ , always happy with Noora. Always Noora. The tram arrives and Noora finds Eva’s card in her pocket, and sits her down. Noora is always taking care of her. Noora loves her. Eva loves Noora. So, so much. She’s so pretty. She smells so good. Her shoulder is so soft. And she is so nice to Eva, helps her up the stairs to the apartment and makes her drink water and wash her face and brush her teeth, gives her a t-shirt to sleep in and one of her pillows. 

Noora’s duvet smells like Noora, and it’s heavy on Eva, weighs down on her shoulders, her back, her thighs. Keeps her safe. Noora gets into bed next to her, but she’s too far away. It creates a gap under the duvet, a black hole, and Eva doesn’t like it. She wants to be completely wrapped up in the duvet, in Noora, in warmth and safety. Wants to have something weighing down on every centimeter of her, so that she doesn’t float away. So she shuffles closer, closes the gap between their bodies. Noora is a little taller than Eva, so when they’re nose to nose, Eva’s foot has nowhere to go but to hook over Noora’s ankle. 

Noora’s warmth adds to the warmth of the duvet. Her breath tickles on Eva’s chin. The faint glow of the street light through the orange blanket curtain gleams in her eyes. Eva sinks deeper into Noora’s bed, further into slumber, until she doesn’t know if the fuzziness in her mind is mainly alcohol or sleepiness. With Noora, everything settles. 

It just feels right to lean in and press her lips to Noora’s. To kiss her softly, like this is something they do, like this is how they say goodnight. Feels right to catch her bottom lips between her own, to slip her hand into Noora’s hair at her temple. It feels right when Noora’s lips move against her own, when her leg moves forward between Eva’s so that Eva’s leg lies across her thigh.

It feels right. 

For a few minutes, it feels just right. 

Then Noora untangles herself from her. Moves away so she’s laying at the very edge of the bed. 

The gap between them even bigger than before. 

“Maybe we should go to sleep,” she says, and her voice is too loud in the darkness, too real in their bubble, in this rift in time that only exists after a party, between night and morning.

She turns her back to Eva, as always. 

Even though nothing is as always. 

Outside, a car passes by. The streetlight pools on the curtain, creating a crescent moon across the floor. The night in Noora’s room is grey. 

Noora falls asleep with her back to Eva, on the outermost edge of the bed. On the opposite side, as far away as she can lie without falling of. Eva blinks her eyes rapidly, trying to stop them from stinging.

~*~

**Three.**

The patter of rain against Eva’s window has no discernable rhythm. As soon as she thinks she’s figured it out, it changes, waking her up just as she’s drifting off to sleep. Drops of water race towards each other on the glass, only to change direction at the last second; never meeting. 

Eva goes to bed alone, and wakes up alone. Just like she did yesterday. And the day before. Every night for the past few weeks.

Noora hasn’t slept over since Eva kissed her. 

Her laundry basket is an overflowing tangle. She’s fallen asleep with her makeup still intact three nights in a row.

They haven’t talked about it. 

Eva had woken up the next morning with a pulse behind her eyes and a sour taste in her mouth, alone in Noora’s bed with midday sunlight streaming through her window. Had found Noora in the kitchen. Bread and butter, cheese, cucumber slices, pepper wedges spread out on the table. Strong, black coffee. And Linn, in her fluffy white robe, stringy hair, lapping at her corn flakes. Like everything was normal. Like nothing had happened. Like they had just gone to sleep, like always. 

Eva had gone straight home after that. Had mumbled something about homework that they both knew was a lie, but Noora had just nodded in response. Had gotten in the shower and turned her face up to the stream, pretended that that could hide her tears from herself, that the sting of salt in her eyes and the jagged rock in her throat weren’t signs enough. Had crawled into bed again and tried to distract herself with Dr Phil and the Kardashians, and when that didn’t help, when she realised that they couldn’t make the phantom sensation of Noora’s thigh rubbing against her clit disappear, couldn’t make her forget the taste of Noora’s lips, she had cried some more and masturbated and taken another shower. 

And now it’s been weeks, and they still haven’t talked about it. 

And Eva still can’t forget. 

Doesn’t want to. 

If this is the only kiss she gets with Noora, she wants to remember it forever. Slippery hair against her fingertips, thigh between her legs, Noora’s breath smelling of toothpaste.

She  _ should  _ forget it. 

So she was drunk. That’s not an excuse. She can hear Noora’s voice, arguing with one of the idiot boys in their social studies class or sighing at a thoughtless Vilde.  _ Assault is assault, no matter what you’re wearing or doing. Guys are excused for being drunk and girls are blamed.  _ Sleeping in the same bed isn’t consenting. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

And still she can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop imagining Noora’s hands on her face, on her breasts, between her legs, on her, everywhere. Even though she knows she shouldn’t. Even though she knows it’s creepy. 

So, so fucking creepy. 

And she can tell that Noora thinks it’s creepy, too. 

It’s like there’s clingfilm between them, she thinks, unwrapping her sandwich, trying to ignore how Noora and Sana bend their heads together, shutting everyone else out. A thin barrier, almost invisible, but solid enough that nothing gets through it. Noora keeps avoiding them - avoiding  _ her.  _ Keeps making excuses, and Eva’s stomach clenches, because she’s heard them all before: She has a lot of school work, she doesn’t want to keep them from having fun just because she doesn’t like parties, she has to keep Eskild from messing up her room.

But it seems like Eva is the only one who’s noticed. 

She was always so scared of what might happen if she told Noora about her feelings. If she told her that her smile makes her heart feel like it’s glowing, that her laugh sends warm waves through her belly. That she could listen to her voice, whispering in the dark, for hours, if Noora would only let her. That when she scrunches up her nose Eva can feel uncontrollable giggles rise like bubbles in her chest. 

That for Noora, she wants to be better – be smarter, study harder, be more politically aware – in a way that she never did for Jonas. For Noora, she wants to be less of a mess. 

But she could never risk ruining their friendship. 

Was always so sure that if she couldn’t be with Noora, being friends with her was better than nothing. 

But now she’s messed up that as well. Like she messes up everything.

She should have just told her. But it’s too late now. She fucked up, and Noora will barely look at her. 

She wishes she could talk to someone. Chris. Sana. Vilde. But Chris could never keep this a secret, and Sana would probably judge her, has never gotten drunk and made out with the wrong person, is a pillar of self control when it comes to sex, and Vilde would just squeal and think it was super cute and not get it at all. 

Fuck. 

She has to get over Noora. Somehow. Has to find a way to be just friends with her again. She’s already lost too many friends over falling in love with the wrong person. Just the thought of losing Noora too makes her feel sick to her stomach, acid already burning at the back of her throat. 

She’s not going through with that again. 

She’ll figure it out, probably. She got over Jonas, after all. Sure, it took a year, took realising that she was in love with Noora to finally let him go, but she did it. In the end, she did manage to let him go. She’ll get over Noora as well. Somehow, she’ll get through this, come out on the other side with just a wisp of nostalgia and as few regrets as possible remaining.

But right now she can’t even imagine a world where her heart doesn’t pirouette every time Noora smiles. 

The rain keeps tapping on her window, out of sync. 

~*~

**One.**

Eva’s weight lifting from the mattress, disappearing from behind her back. The soft click of the door to the stairs when Eva tries to shut it quietly. The deafening silence when Eva is no longer breathing deeply beside her. These are the things that wake Noora up. 

She doesn't want to open her eyes. She knows exactly what she’ll see. The posters on Eva’s wall – Twin Peaks, Kurt Cobain. The mess on her nightstand. Her orange lamp. Dust particles whirling in the sun on the wall.

She doesn't want to open her eyes, doesn't want to have to deal with the world already. Doesn't want to think about what this is. 

She used to sleep over at Eva's all the time, and it was never a big deal. Because Eskild was having loud sex. Because she couldn't be bothered going home when they discovered the time was nearing midnight on a school night. Because Isak had taken over her room, and sometimes, she really just wanted to sleep in a real bed. Because suddenly, there were even more people having loud sex in the apartment. 

But she’s stopped making up reasons now, usually just asks if she can come over. Waits Eva out, until she finds her a t-shirt to sleep in, without comment. They brush their teeth side by side and laugh at Eva's racoon eyes when she washes off her mascara, and when Eva reaches out an arm to turn of the lamp on her nightstand, Noora has to grip the duvet to remind herself to not lean over, lay the weight of her entire torso on top of Eva, and kiss her good night. Has to turn her back to Eva so she won't know that what she really wants to do is lie and stare at her through the darkness, until her eyes get used to the low light from outside so she once again can trace the contours of Eva's eyebrows, her nose, her mouth. Count the spots on the side of her chin. 

She’s tried to remember the exact moment when this all started. Has thought about it so many times – until it felt like it was the only thought that existed in her mind, the only thought she had ever had – but she can’t pinpoint when she started to feel like  _ this _ . 

Sometimes, it feels like she's always felt it.

Sometimes, it feels completely new. 

Like it’s come in stops and starts, from the first moment she saw Eva in Spanish, the first lesson of the first week of their first year. How she had seemed to hide within herself, mermaid hair cascading down around her face, hood up, shutting out the rest of the world. Noora remembers how she tried to find a way to talk to Eva, an excuse, any excuse really, but she was always with Jonas, or nowhere to be found. 

Back then, she couldn't put what she was feeling into words. She only knew that she wanted to get to know Eva. Wanted to be near her, wanted to take care of her, wanted to make her smile. 

But Eva was with Jonas. And then even when she wasn't, she still was, in a way. And William wanted Noora, wanted to take care of her when she was so used to taking care of others, and he needed so much caretaking himself. Was as lost and lonely as she was, underneath the surface. 

With William, she could even ignore the swooping bottomlessness of her stomach when Eva started kissing Vilde. 

But now, there's no William. There's no Jonas (at least, she doesn't think so. She found his beanie at Eva's place last week, but Eva hasn't said anything. And nothing came from them hooking up this summer, except… hooking up). 

And still she doesn’t do anything about it. 

Because Eva doesn't like her back. Of course she doesn't like her back. Eva only kisses girls when she's drunk, because guys think it's hot. Eva hooks up with guys at parties and from Tinder and goes home with them, leaving Noora anxious and sleepless until she resurfaces in the group chat the next day. 

Eva gets up and goes to the bathroom because to her, waking up in the same bed as Noora is no different from waking up with anyone else. No different from waking up with Vilde, or Chris, or Sana.

But Noora can't seem to stop. She can't seem to stop coming over, falling asleep to the calming sound of Eva's deep breaths, and then waking up with a knotted stomach because Eva doesn't have feelings for her today either. 

She has to go. She can't stand the idea of staying here, of making Eva pancakes, of how she winces when she burns her tongue on her first sip of coffee. Can't lie on her bed, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and listen to Eva talk about some boy she matched with on Tinder. 

Water wooshes through the pipes as Eva flushes the toilet above her, and the sound sets Noora into motion, finally. She hurries to button her shirt, messes it up, buttons it crooked, has to do it again. When Eva returns, she's only just gotten to the last few buttons at the collar. 

Eva stops in the doorway, like she's just waiting for Noora to leave through the window. As if to show that Noora can come this far, but no further.

When it's just her and Eva, Noora almost never wears lipstick. She doesn't need it. Around Eva, she doesn't need her barriers, her armour. Around Eva, she can be –  _ wants to be _ – stripped bare, naked, soft. 

But she needs her armour today. 

She has a forgotten lipstick in her purse. Her hand shakes a little when she drags it along her lips. The contour is uneven. When she corrects it the rough texture of the tissue scratches her sensitive skin a little. For a moment, she lets it take her focus off Eva, let’s the pain in the heart pool in the sting. Become physical, so that it can pass. 

When Eva puts her arms around her neck to hug her goodbye, her shirt rides up, and Noora imagines that she can feel the cotton of her panties press against her jeans. She wants to trace the edge of them, slip a finger underneath the elastic, wants to – 

She can't even let herself finish. Escapes out into the frosty morning, lets the chill find its way underneath her blouse, at her collar, her wrists. Wills it to cool her down. Knows it won't. 

~*~

**Two.**

Eva is drunk. 

Eva is drunk, as always, and Noora is sober, as always. 

And as always, she’s worried. 

Worried that Eva will throw her arms around some guy whose name she doesn’t know, disappear into a bathroom or a bedroom and not remember exactly what happened the next day. Worried that one day something will actually happen. 

But Eva is happy. And Noora wants Eva to be happy, wants her to be free, wants her to have fun. Remembers too well the sad ballerina from their first semester, the guilt, the pining. At least now, she does what she wants. Knows what she wants. 

And she isn’t Noora’s to take care of. 

She has to remember that. 

Eva isn’t hers to take care of. 

But she can’t help keeping tabs on her, can’t stop watching as she flits from Iben to Chris to Vilde, wine swooshing in her glass, and then, having lost the glass somewhere, drinking straight from the bottle. She watches as Eva tries to pull Jonas onto the dancefloor, and when he declines, dances by herself, in her own little bubble.

She looks happy. 

A year and a half ago she had asked Sana if she ever felt like just letting go, getting drunk, hooking up with someone. At the time, she had thought that feeling like that meant that she was in love with William. 

Now, she thinks she was just tired. 

Tired of always being the responsible one. The grown up. The opinionated one. The one who makes healthy dinners and doesn’t drink and takes care of herself and everyone around her. Who makes sure that Vilde is eating. Makes sure that Chris doesn’t feel left out. Makes sure that Sana’s anger doesn’t get the best of her. Makes sure that Eva gets home safely. 

She just wanted someone to take care of her for once. Wanted to rest. 

But then when she did let go... it didn’t exactly work out very well. 

Intellectually, she knows that this is different. That letting herself feel what she feels for Eva, letting herself act on it – it’s nothing like getting drunk with Nico, moving to London with William. She knows that Eva would never try to change her, would never take advantage of her. 

But she still can’t make herself act on it. 

She’s tried. She’s pictured it a thousand times, laying in bed, listening to Eva snoring beside her, unable to sleep. Has tried to imagine how it would go, what she would say. 

_ Eva, I like you. I have feelings for you.   _

In her imagination, it’s always quiet. Dark. Safe. There’s never the desperation she felt when she went after William. It’s never a scream. Always a whisper. 

She can never imagine Eva’s answer. Can never picture what happens after. 

She wants to whisk Eva away and hide in her room, in her bed, in their bubble, wants to create a rift in time where she never has to worry about what actually telling Eva about her feelings could mean, what effects it could have on their friendship, on tomorrow, because there wouldn’t  _ be  _ a tomorrow, there would just be her and Eva, in bed, together. 

The problem is that there is always a tomorrow. Always an after. 

She can’t risk the after being an after without Eva. Even if that means never letting go. 

She watches Eva pace in front of the closed bathroom door. Watches her pout. Watches her stumble a little. Watches the wine in her bottle swoosh. 

If she takes her home now, she’s just being a good friend, right? It’s not that late, barely past midnight, but Eva is already wasted enough that no one will think anything of it. And better that Noora takes her home and gets her into bed than that someone else does. 

Eva lights up when she stops her from falling over on the stairs. When she throws her arms around Noora’s neck it takes all of her self restraint not to bury her nose in the crook of Eva’s neck, drown in the smell of her shampoo, her perfume, her sweat, her foundation. She wills herself to only steady Eva with her arm, when all she wants is to hug her back just as tightly. Forces herself to untangle Eva’s arms around her neck. 

It’s just the way Eva is when she’s drunk. A few minutes later, she embraces Isak just as enthusiastically. 

Isak is the last person Noora should be jealous of. But she can’t stop herself. 

She needs to stop. She knows she has to stop. It’s creepy. She has no right to be jealous, has no claim on Eva. They’re friends – best friends, even (she thinks, she hopes) – and she should be happy for her. Should be happy that she’s happy, should be thrilled that she has so many people around her that love her and care for her. But as Eva blabs happily all the way home, about Iben, and Vilde, and Sana and Yousef, and Isak and Even, and Jonas, always Jonas, Noora has to shove her fists into her pockets, has to hide in her collar so that Eva won’t see how she has to bite her lips together to keep them from quivering. 

She makes Eva drink a large glass of water when they come home – home to  _ her,  _ she has to correct herself – and Eva looks so proud of herself when she finishes it, like it’s an accomplishment. Noora’s makeup remover melts off Eva’s foundation, mascara, brings out her red cheeks, her freckles. Noora wants to run her finger over them, wants to count each and every one. Wants to run her fingers through her hair, the soft strands right above her neck, wants to grab it and pull her close and kiss her until they’re both out of breath. 

She makes excuses for herself. She has to watch Eva when she falls asleep. Has to make sure that she won’t roll over on her back. That she won’t risk choking if she vomits. 

She’s just being a good friend. 

Just a friend. 

Eva shuffles closer. Hooks her foot over Noora’s ankle. Smiles blissfully. Eyes half closed, cheeks round and glowing. Her breath on Noora’s face smells of wine and toothpaste.

Her lips are soft on Noora’s lips. 

Noora kisses back before she realises what she’s doing. Shuts off her mind, just for a moment. Lets herself feel, just for a moment. 

For a moment, there is only Eva. The sweet honey of her shampoo. The mix of dancing sweat, perfume and deodorant. Uneven nails against her scalp, when Eva tangles her fingers in Noora’s hair. 

It fills every crevice of her mind, crowds out everything else. The hint of Eva’s tongue against her bottom lip. The weight of Eva’s thigh on hers. 

Then she can’t stop her thoughts from intruding again. 

Eva’s drunk. She’ll kiss anyone when she’s drunk. It could just as well have been Vilde. Or Jonas.

The bubble bursts. 

She pulls Eva’s hand out of her hair, pulls her own leg out from between Eva’s. Pulls her lips away. Has to bite down on her bottom lip to refrain from kissing her again. 

“Maybe we should go to sleep,” she says, and she can hear that she’s too loud, that her voice is what tears the bubble apart completely. 

Outside, a car passes in the night. 

Eva falls asleep with her back to Noora, on the outermost edge of the bed. On the opposite side, as far away as she can lie without falling of, Noora blinks her eyes rapidly, trying to stop them from stinging.

~*~

**Three.**

Noora never realised how big her bed is before now. It never felt very big. When William slept over it often felt too small, like she could never get enough space for herself.

Now, it feels like it goes on forever. 

It’s been raining for weeks. The smatter of rain against her window never stops. Every day, there are fewer and fewer hours of daylight. 

The world is grey. Still. The rain keeps the streets empty, the people who dare to venture outside subdued. 

Noora’s mind is at war with the world. 

It hasn’t stopped spinning since Eva kissed her. 

Since she kissed Eva. 

She had tried to force some sort of normality on the situation, exude some kind of control. Make the same coffee, put out the same breakfast as she always does. Eat her dinner at five, her plate split in thirds; vegetables, protein, carbohydrates. Wear the same clothes. Push the same rings over the same knuckles, the same earring post against the back of her ear. Wear the same lipstick. 

It’s important to have a routine. 

But, she thinks, as she searches her darkened ceiling for the crack that she knows is there, listening to the rain against her window: her routine has nothing on Eva. 

It’s not like she wasn’t constantly thinking of Eva before the kiss. Like she wasn’t falling asleep to the rhythm of her breaths, waking up to her turning over in bed. Being distracted by her chewing on her pencil in class, by the sun on her hair, her laugh, the fan of her eyelashes against her cheek. 

But it’s never been as bad as this. 

She’s having trouble sleeping again, but her mind just won’t calm down for long enough to allow her to drift off. It keeps her anxieties playing on a constant loop, and none of her coping techniques seem to be working. Telling herself that there’s nothing she can do about the kiss now isn’t helping. Putting the possible consequences of telling Eva how she feels only serves to make her realise what a risk that would be, reminds her of all - of everyone - that she stands to lose if Eva rejects her. 

She’s even tried counting sheep. 

Nothing.

So instead of sleeping she is staring at the ceiling, looking for cracks. 

In the past, when she couldn’t sleep, when her mind wouldn’t leave her alone, she would always turn to Eva. Call her, at any hour of the night, leaning against the counter in their unused, stainless steel kitchen in London, or from the echoing back stairwell of the flatshare, whispering to avoid waking up any of their neighbors. Put her thoughts into words, speak them into the silence of three a.m., into Eva’s steady breathing on the other end of the line, her low mm-hms and yeahs. 

The problem, she’d say, is that no one wants to sacrifice anything for love anymore - and Eva would know that what she really meant was: why did I make all these sacrifices, when he never made any for me? 

Because that’s what it had felt like. One sacrifice after another; her opinions, her ideals, her home, her friends. 

Falling for William had felt like surrendering. 

She had resisted it - resisted him - for so long, that when she finally gave in and let herself fall it had felt like she was giving something up. 

And at the time, when she did, she’d thought it was romantic - because wasn’t it? Wasn’t it romantic to make sacrifices for love, for the person you were in love with? The person you couldn’t stop thinking about? 

But it’s never felt like that with Eva. 

With Eva, it’s never been anything but easy. 

The thought almost catches her by surprise, because how can she pretend that any of this is easy, when she’s here and Eva’s at home, and they’ve barely spoken for several weeks? But it is. iot always has been: Falling for Eva never required any effort. Falling for Eva meant waking up one morning in her bed, to her sleepy-red cheeks and parted pout and feeling everything just fall into place inside her. 

Of course she’s in love with Eva. How could she not be?

So, despite everything, despite the fact that she knew from the moment she realised that she was in love with her that she was setting herself up for heartbreak - it feels easy. 

It feels easy to imagine being with Eva, to spend time with her, Saturday mornings in bed and afternoons after school, to touch her, to kiss her. To find out how the skin of her stomach, her thighs feels under Noora’s fingertips. To learn what she tastes like. To be touched by her, and kissed by her. Slowly, lazily, hazily; quick pecks before parting for separate classes; hungrily, deeply, desperately. To imagine herself on top of her, to imagine Eva's hands exploring Noora’s skin. 

To imagine laying on Eva’s arm, her hand in her hair, speaking her racing thoughts into darkened bedrooms and having her quiet them. 

It feels safe. 

And the thought hasn’t more than occurred to her before her mind spins off again, grabbing at her heart and making her sick to her stomach with ideas of what might happen if she tells Eva, how she’ll react. They’re vague and looming, shadowy images that she can’t pinpoint and can’t refute, too distant to get a grip on but too real to ignore. Like the wind screaming outside her window, untenable but undeniable. 

She needs Eva. 

She knows that. 

Talking to Eva is the only thing that will help. Despite everything, despite what that might lead to, despite what might happen - she needs Eva. 

She reaches out, grabs her phone and pulls out the too short charger cable. Eva grins back at her from the tiny Messenger bubble. 

Noora’s thumbs hover over the keys. 

_ I need to talk to you about something  _ she types, pressing send before she can start worrying about it. 

Eva’s reply is instant.

_ Come over.  _

~*~

**Four.**

Noora’s taps on Eva’s window are even. Rhythmical. Tap, tap, tap. They break through the rain, through Eva’s almost-slumber. Noora’s silhouette is dark against the street light outside. 

It takes her a minute to get out of her warm bed, to open the window and let Noora crawl inside. Her mind still slow, foggy with sleep. Noora’s coat is wet, open, and she’s without a scarf. Underneath it, she’s wearing nothing but one of the soft t-shirts she sleeps in, tucked into her jeans. Mismatched socks. If it weren’t for the rain in her hair and her cheeks tinged pink with cold, it would look like she just rolled out of bed. Noora, who's normally so put together. So poised. Buttoned up and hair brushed. Seeing her like this just feels… off. 

She’d asked her over on instinct. Half asleep. It had been fitful, restless enough that the buzz of her phone had woken her up, and in that second she hadn’t remembered the last few weeks, hadn’t remembered the awkwardness, the stiffness. Had only remembered  _ Noora.  _ That Noora needed her. Her Noora. 

But. 

Now that she's standing here, beneath Eva's window, raindrops clinging to her hair, the wool of her coat glistening wet in the faint light from the basement window –

She doesn't know how to act. 

Can she still just… hug her? Like she always does? (Did.) Or would that be… wrong somehow? Weird? 

Noora sneaks one arm out of a coat sleeve, then the other. Shakes it out, folds it over the back of Eva's desk chair. Smooths it out. There's something so deliberate in it. Maybe even guarded. 

Eva just stands there. Stares at her. Like her feet are glued to the floor, and she is distracted, for a moment, by the thought that it's like the floor of a club, sticky with beer. Where you have to force your feet to come with you every time you want to move. 

Noora’s arms are bare, and through the thin t-shirt Eva can see the contours of her stiffening nipples. When Noora hugs herself, runs her hands over her arms like she's trying to warm herself up, she sees her breasts move with them, soft and bare as well. 

Even through the sleepy swamp in her mind, the guilt rings through. 

Noora's shoulders are drawn up, almost to her ears, rounded forward, and her gaze seems never to stick to Eva. 

She looks so small. 

She looks like she did that May 17th that they all spent in the emergency room. She looks like she hasn't slept. She looks like she might cry. 

Her Noora. 

Her Noora needs her. 

And if that's what she wants, Eva just needs to be her friend. 

Nothing more. 

Her feet unstick surprisingly easily from the floor as she takes a step forwards and wraps her arms around Noora, around Noora's shoulders. 

Against her cheek she can feel Noora let out a long breath. Feels her shoulders relax, fall down from beneath her ears. 

Noora's nose is cold against the crook of Eva's neck, and her hair whispers against her clavicle. But her breath is warm against Eva's skin, warm and deep, and her arms wrap around Eva's waist like it was fitted specifically for them. 

She smells like almost-gone deodorant and  _ Noora.  _

They stay there until Eva feels the goosebumps on Noora's skin fade against her fingertips, and Noora takes another deep breath and pulls them apart. But her hands stay on Eva's waist, Eva's hand on Noora’s upper arms. 

She's just imagining it, she knows, her brain to sleepy still to process what's happening correctly, but it still feels different. 

And it still feels the same. 

When Noora notices that she is still wearing mascara, and so they end up in the bathroom together, Eva in front of the basin and Noora sitting on the lid of the toilet as always, watching her through the mirror. When the makeup remover melts her mascara, giving her racoon eyes. 

It looks just like it always does. Did. It feels the same. 

And different. 

She can't stop thinking of Noora's message, can't stop seeing it flash before her eyes. 

_ I need to talk to you about something.  _

There is a tiny glow, hidden deep in her chest, so small that she hardly dares to think about it, doesn't want to feel the spark of it, look at the light it's spreading for fear of extinguishing it. A tiny, tiny glow of hope. 

It's easier to not go there. If she can convince herself not to hope she won't be as disappointed when it's inevitably not… that. 

The last time she got a message like that from Noora was when she needed to convince herself that she could break up with William. That she didn't owe him anything, didn't have to stay with him. 

But they haven't talked about William in weeks, now. She's pretty sure that they're not in touch. 

So it can't be that. 

She hopes that whatever it is, it isn't that. 

Just the idea of Noora getting back together with William makes her heart rattle. 

Noora unbuttons her jeans, pulls them down her pale legs, and Eva shouldn't be wondering now what they'd feel like underneath her hands, how soft the skin is on the inside of Noora's thighs. She folds them up, places them neatly on Eva’s desk chair. Crawls into bed, on the same side as always. 

Like it's all the same as it was. 

The duvet is heavy on Eva, weighs down on of her shoulders. Her back. Her thighs. She burrows down under it, tries to will it to make her feel safe. Grounded. But the uncertainty, the unknowing - it's getting harder and harder to contain. 

Noora lies as far from her as possible. It creates a gap under the duvet. A black hole. 

An unbridgeable distance. 

She wants to be completely wrapped up in the duvet, in Noora, in warmth and safety. Wants to have something weighing down on every centimeter of her

But if that's something she can't have, she'll just have to be fine with what she does get. She'll just have to be Noora's friend. 

So into the darkness, into the distance between them, she whispers, 

“Are you okay?”, and then, to be more specific, in case Noora hasn't had her own message running through her mind all night: “What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?”

Across from her, Noora shuffles further down under the duvet. The sound multiplies in the darkness. Only her nose and the top of her head are visible. 

Eva never noticed before that her mattress feels different when there's another person in her bed. Through it, she feels Noora shift her weight. 

“I… need to tell you something.” she says, and Eva has to strain to hear her over the sound of the rustling of the bedding. “Because.. I can’t stop thinking about it, and talking to you… talking to you helps. Because… you’re my best friend.”

Any tiny light of hope deep down in Eva's chest is blown out. There is nothing inside her but cold, dark hollowness. 

_ You're my best friend.  _

The duvet rustles around them. Her breathing echoes in her ears. Her feet feel clammy, sticky. Her skin itches. 

Across from her, Noora draws a deep breath. 

“You’re my best friend, but… I think I have feelings for you. I’m sorry. But you’re the only one I can tell things like that. You’re the only one I want to tell.”

~*~

**Five.**

The world is silent. 

Like it's holding its breath together with her. 

The only sound is the splatter of rain against the window. 

She dips her nose under the covers, avoiding Eva's gaze. Eva's duvet smells of Eva, of detergent, or warmth. It's filled with down, much fluffier than her own. The sheet’s much softer, smoother. It wraps around her, lays around her neck, presses on her chest and if she weren't already holding her breath she might find it constricting. 

The taste of iron mixes with the last traces of spearmint toothpaste in her mouth. Her calves are rough against each other - dry with cold, and she hasn't shaved in a few days. Hasn't had a reason to. 

Eva isn't saying anything. 

Why isn't Eva saying anything. 

She glances back up, meets Eva's eyes, wide with shock. Her mouth, hanging open. 

Oh god.

This was a bad idea. Such a bad idea. She should never have come here, never have said anything. She's really ruined everything. 

She burrows deeper into the covers, shuts the world out with her hands over her face. She has to leave. She has to go home, can't stay her now, oh god. But leaving now, getting out of bed and putting on her socks, her jeans, carefully avoiding noticing that Eva is carefully avoiding looking her – that feels even worse. Leaving her even more exposed than she already feels. 

Behind her hands she squeezes her eyes shut. Tries to will them to stop stinging. 

And then, through her fingers, Eva's voice reaches her. On a long exhale, laced with wonder:

“Noora…”

And against the back of her hand, the light touch of fingertips. Fingers curling around her own, gently gently pulling them away from her face. Threading through her hair. Eva's thumb stroking her temple, cheekbone. 

“Noora,” she says again, and this time it's with conviction. 

This time, when she crosses the space between them, when she shuffles closer, aligns herself to Noora, feet to feet, knees to knees, almost touching – this time Noora meets her half way. 

This time, there's a tiny pause just before their lips slot together, a second where Noora meets Eva's eyes, centimeters from her own. Where she sees Eva's smile in the crinkles in the corners of her eyes. 

A second where they make a decision. 

The kiss is slow. Thoughtful. Deliberate. Eva's lips are soft between her own, move against Noora’s like she's been wondering what Noora's lips will feel like and is taking her time discovering if she was right. Her hand slides further back over Noora's head, weaving her fingers through her hair. 

Noora shuffles closer. Closes the distance between them. Chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hip to hip. Hooks her foot over Eva's ankle. 

Eva pushes against her. Her breasts, her stomach against Noora's, pushes her leg further in between them, causing Noora's leg to travel upwards, towards Eva's thigh. Eva's lips grow more insistent against her own, and Noora feels her tongue trace the line of her bottom lip. 

Eva wants this. 

The realization settles low in her belly, and Noora can almost feel her nerves disintegrate, her muscles shudder as the tension seeps out of them. 

Eva wants this, just like she does. 

She smiles against her lips, and feels how Eva smiles back, before she takes advantage of the change of pace and slips her tongue into Noora’s mouth, pulling her in by the back of her head. 

The heat rolls from the depths of Noora’s belly, to her chest, arms. Pools between her thighs. Her skin tingles with the need to be touched, her fingers with the need to touch. She runs her hand down Eva's side, feels the pilling fabric of her t-shirt move against her sloping waist. Feels Eva arch her back, press herself even closer. 

Eva's kisses are both slow and hungry, like she's savoring the taste of Noora. Tasting her lips, the inside of her mouth. Her leg is warm against the thin skin of Noora's inner thighs, as she pushes, pushes. Angles her hips towards her, again and again. 

Waves roll through Noora as Eva's thigh glances over her clit, again and again. 

Her skin sparks. Eva's hips are round and soft beneath her fingertips, the small of her back curving into her ass, and just the fact that she gets to do this, gets to feel the dip just above it, run her hand over the thin cotton of Eva's panties, gets to feel Eva respond to her touch by pressing even closer - it's enough to send shivers down Noora's spine. 

With her hand still in Noora's hair, her leg between Noora's legs, Eva rolls them over. Covers Noora with her body, with the weight of her. 

It used to make Noora feel trapped, to have another person on top of her. She always used to prefer to be the one in control, the one setting the pace. 

With Eva, it feels like she could let go. 

Eva's other hand travels down Noora's body. Her fingers trace the outline of her ribcage. Stop when she reaches the edge of Noora's panties, a thumb resting on the elastic. 

Noora can feel her blood between her legs, boiling, pounding, and with every kiss, with every touch of Eva's fingers on her skin, her thigh rubbing against her clit - with every second, she’s becoming more and more desperate. 

When Eva moves and kisses her neck, plants wet kisses along her collarbone - Noora moans. 

The sound surprises her. She can't remember ever having to moan during sex, and she's always been thoroughly opposed to faking it - that, at least, she had held on to. But she's not faking the vibrations gathering in her chest, the rumble that can only seem to escape through her mouth. 

Eva hums happily against her skin in response. Keeps sprinkling kisses down Noora’s body, over her t-shirt. Her thumb drawing circles at Noora's hip, dipping under her shirt. The duvet falls off them as she moves, leaving them both exposed. 

When she reaches her stomach she takes the hand from Noora's hair, as well, and pushes her t-shirt up to her waist. Plants a kiss beside her belly button, and then a string of kisses down her faint happy trail, the sparse blond hairs that she was always ashamed of, always used to pluck when she had someone to pluck for. But Eva just giggles against her skin, and she feels her tongue dart out and lick it. Taste her skin. 

Noora lets out a deep sigh she didn't know she was holding in, and Eva smiles up at her. Her lips are glossy with spit, her eyes and cheeks shine, and she is somehow even more beautiful than usually. 

“Is this okay?” she whispers, “Can I…?”

Noora can't speak, can’t make her voice soft enough that it wouldn't feel out of place, wouldn't shatter the bubble they're in. So she only nods. Eva smiles at her again, squeezing her hip in reassurance, and yes: everything is okay. With Eva, everything is okay. 

A shudder runs through her as Eva noses over the front of her panties, kisses the soft insides of her thighs. Hooks her fingers under the elastic and pulls them down Noora’s legs, slowly, centimeter by centimeter down her legs. 

For a moment, Noora sees herself as if from the outside, looking in at them. With her t-shirt bunched up around her waist, her panties on the floor. She suddenly feels very bare, very naked, and she throws an arm over her eyes to block out the world. 

Eva runs her thumbs over the insides of her thighs, spreading Noora's legs. Slowly, softly. And like she can sense that Noora needs something to ground her, something steady, she spreads her hands on Noora’s thighs. Kisses them, first one, then the other. Kisses her hip. A score of kisses along her stomach. 

The first lick over her clit sparks fireworks in Noora's thighs, and if it weren't for Eva's hands on them she might not have been able to keep still. With her arm over her eyes all her sensory perception seems to have been concentrated to her crotch. 

Eva hums, and the vibrations multiply through Noora, through her belly, her breasts, out into her fingers. It feels like her skin is electrified, like she might get a static shock if someone touched her now. Eva runs her tongue along her folds, slowly, teasingly, glances over her clit before disappearing from it again, and Noora moans, again, has to release some of the tension building inside her, somehow. Her thighs prick, and it's getting more and more difficult to keep them still, to keep her hips from lifting, bucking against Eva. 

And then Eva circles her tongue around her clit, takes it in her mouth and sucks. 

And Noora is gone. 

The warmth in her belly erupts, flows through her veins like lava. Her toes, her calves, her thighs tense and shudder and she has to grip at something - the sheets, Eva's hair, her own hair - to keep from soaring away. 

Eva works her through it, sucks and licks until Noora mellows and comes down from her high. Her skin tingles in the aftermath of the orgasm, seems to threaten to leave her and float away on its own. She doesn't dare remove the arm from her eyes, doesn't want the rest of the world to intrude just yet. 

From her toes, over her legs, then hips and stomach, she feels Eva pull the duvet back over them. Feels her come close beside her, place a soft kiss on her shoulder and an arm around her waist. Her hair tickles at Noora’s neck as she drifts off to sleep. 

Outside, the rain had stopped. 

~*~

**Now.**

Eva wakes up to Noora’s blonde hair spread out across her pillow, like a sun. The first golden rays of dawn are finding their way in through the basement window, bathing the entire room in a soft . Like an Instagram filter. Valencia, maybe. 

Noora sleeps on her back, an arm up by her face, the other under Eva’s neck. Eva’s arm still around her waist, across her stomach. Her hair is a tangle, matted from Eva’s fingers gripping it, from Noora squirming against the pillow as she came. They’ve kicked the duvet down sometime during the night, and between the hem of Noora’s t-shirt and the covers Eva can glimpse the pale skin of her lower stomach. 

Noora has a web of white stretch marks on her hips. She never noticed that before. 

On the other side of the bed she can spot Noora’s scrunched up panties, still in the same spot where she dropped them after pulling them down Noora’s legs. 

Fuck. 

She can’t believe she gets to have this. Can’t believe that Noora is here, in her bed, under her arm, sweaty from sex and from sleeping too close together. 

Eva traces a finger over the white lines of her hip. 

She wants to bury her nose in her hair, in the dip between her collar bones, under her shirt. Wants to inhale the scent of Noora sleeping, her skin warm and laced with salt. Wants to memorize it. Wants to trace every centimeter of her, stroke her hair, cheek. Follow the curve of her waist and thighs. 

She lifts herself on her elbow. Studies Noora. Her face is bare, pale eyelashes fanning over pink cheeks. Her mouth slightly parted, pouting. 

Eva can still feel the sting of their kisses on her lips. She wonders if Noora can, too. 

Noora squirms underneath her finger, rolls over to her side, to facing Eva. Her eyelashes flutter. She is smiling, sleepily, even before she opens her eyes. 

She’s so fucking beautiful that Eva can’t even help herself. Has to place a kiss, light as a feather, on her cheek. Her jaw. The warm spot where her neck dips into her shoulder.

Noora scrunches up her nose at the light touches, breathes out a giggle as she slowly opens one eye, and then the other. In the morning sunlight they look bluer than they ever did. 

It’s not like anything she’s ever imagined. Nothing like waking up with Jonas, or Chris, or some random Tinder guy. Waking up with Noora is like waking up in a new world. 

Because she can, she runs a hand through Noora’s hair. Undoes a tangle, slowly, careful not to pull at it. Can feel Noora’s eyes roam her face as she focuses on combing through the knot with her fingers. 

She could stay here forever. Pull the duvet over their heads, create their own little bubble of heat and fingers and kisses and skin. Spend all day with her hands in Noora’s hair. 

But because it’s Noora - because she  _ knows  _ Noora, knows her like she’s never felt that she’s known anyone else - she knows they’ll have to get up, eventually. Will have to eat, properly. 

So she traces a thumb along Noora’s temple, down her jaw. Finds her bluer-than-ever eyes again. 

“Breakfast?”

~*~

Eva on her stomach beside her. The comforting weight of her arm disappearing from her waist. Her finger drawing patterns on her hip, light and careful. Her warm breath against her face, and then - soft lips on her cheek, her jaw, her neck. 

These are the things that wake Noora up. 

She wants to stay like this forever, in the warmth of Eva’s arm around her, the weight of her on her arm. The smell of her in her nose. 

She wants to open her eyes, wants to trace the contours of Eva's eyebrows, her nose, her lips. Count the spots on the side of her chin. 

Somehow, it feels like they’ve always woken up like this. Like the weeks - months - of going to sleep with her back to Eva, waking up turned away from her, avoiding, avoiding, avoiding - like they were all just a bad dream, quickly fading in the brightening daylight. 

Like she’s always felt like this. 

Eva’s fingers on her face are light, tickle her like feathers, and the tickles spread through her body, ignite every one of her nerve endings. 

She could never have imagined this. Never let herself try. And even if she had, this moment would have been above her powers of imagination. 

Eva waking up beside her. Eva’s fingers on her, Eva’s body on hers, Eva’s mouth on her.

Her lips are still swollen from yesterday, still sore. They tingle when she runs her tongue over them. 

She could lie here forever, as Eva plays with her hair. Memorize the details of her face, the focus in her eyes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The line of her neck, the slope of her nose. The exact shade of auburn of her hair in the morning glow. 

All she wants right now is to be with Eva. Take care of her and be taken care of. Smile and make her smile. 

She feels steady in a way she can’t remember feeling before. Like every cell in her body has been filled with contentment, with warmth. It’s settled in her belly, full and glowing. 

She feels safe. 

Face bare, in only a t-shirt and no panties, her hair a mess and lips swollen. 

No barriers. No armour. 

Just her and Eva. 

Eva, who smiles in satisfaction and runs her hand down her face. Finds her eyes, and Noora watches, memorizes, as her cheeks go round and her eyes crinkle as her smile grows wider. 

“Breakfast?”

~*~

The last golden rays of afternoon sun find their way in through the basement window, bathing the entire room in softness. Dust particles whirl against the wall, against posters of Kurt Cobain, of Twin Peaks. 

A t-shirt lies folded neatly on top of the tangled mess in the laundry basket. 

A duvet lies rumpled at the foot of the empty bed. 

Through the open door, from the kitchen upstairs: the sound of sizzling pancake batter; the smell of brewing coffee.


End file.
